In the Study of Death
by cosmiicveins
Summary: "Were you ten when you started dying, Ben?" The answer is yes, his mind unwittingly remembers. He hadn't felt pain that time, though; and at the time he hadn't even realized what a blessing that was. He'd soon learned, in the upcoming years, that dying actually really fucking hurt most of the time. [jenerek au]


"Ben?"

"What."

"Tell me about the first time you died."

The room is cold. The chair is uncomfortable. The lights are too bright and his jumpsuit scratchy. The entire atmosphere makes him want to crawl out of his skin and bury himself deep into the earth, until he reaches the molten core and it can burn him straight through within a matter of seconds. At least then he wouldn't be cold anymore.

He's so busy thinking about how cold he is that he doesn't answer her question at first. Her expression hardens, eyes narrowing as her fingers tighten their grip on her precious clipboard. "Tell me about the first time you died, Ben," she repeats, with a professional detachment in her tone that matches her perfect bun and thick-rimmed glasses and little name badge that reads _Dr. Sarah Drave_. "You were ten, correct?"

When he fails to answer for a second time, she reaches over and taps on her tablet screen for a few times. Immediately, he feels a cramp in his lower neck, feels a rush of ice flood his veins.

"Were you ten when you started dying, Ben?"

The answer is yes, his mind unwittingly remembers. He was ten-years-old and still small, freckled, and scrawny. He'd been playing on the rooftop with his brother – without their parents' knowledge, of course – and had lost his balance over the edge. He could still hear his own scream as the pavement rushed up towards him, feel the breeze against his skin. He hadn't felt pain that time, though; and at the time he hadn't even realized what a _blessing _that was.

He'd soon learned, in the upcoming years, that dying actually really fucking hurts most of the time.

"What happened after you fell off the rooftop, Ben?"

Ah, he's been talking aloud. Rattling off every little detail his mind can conjure in perfect report fashion; she must be so very pleased with herself. Proud of her fancy-schmancy tablet that influences his brain with a few taps on the screen.

If he weren't too busy thinking about what had happened after he fell off the rooftop, he would've liked to picture smashing that device into a million pieces and slicing his wrists with the glass so as to escape.

When he'd woken up later on that day, back when he was ten, he'd been terrified. Enclosed in darkness, encased in something plastic and scratchy and black. He'd screamed, in almost more terror than when he'd actually fallen. He'd screamed and kicked and punched the blackness until it was unzippered, and multiple hands reached up and rescued him and pulled him back into the light. There were gasps and screams, doors banging and equipment getting knocked aside as various men and women panicked. After a few minutes of the chaos, his parents had run in. They'd been crying.

She's smiling now, in an odd and thoughtful manner. "And that week was when they ran the tests and declared you one in a million. You were one of the very first Continuals, Ben. One of the very first known to man." She flips through a few of her clipboard papers, humming to herself as she does so. "By the time you were twelve you weren't with your family any longer. It was too dangerous; the government was the only resource that could provide you with the care you needed -"

_Care_. Hilarious.

"- and when you were eighteen you went through the procedure that installed various hardware into your body, allowing your vitals, synapses, and etcetera to be monitored remotely. You agreed to become an operative of the federal government -"

No, no _agreed_… now that's hilarious.

"- for the purposes of military science and biological study. You were a lab rat in the study of death, Ben Derek." She finally closes her folder and leans back in her seat, crossing her legs so that her skirt rises up to the thigh. She's still smiling. "Very impressive. You'll do well here, if you could handle all of that bullshit. We don't send our Continuals out into the field to conduct our research; everything is done here, right in our labs. In a comfortable and controlled environment. You'll find it much more pleasant."

He must not look very convinced, because she tilts her head even as she speaks, those brown eyes no longer narrowed but curious. "Do you not agree? Don't you find it cruel, sending operatives out into the most dangerous battlefields, high-risk cities, outrageous environments? Of course, we understand the logic used behind it – studying death means studying the _circumstances _and situations that cause it, so as to properly monitor the physical and emotional responses but… we are in a new era. Physical symptoms and stressors can be mimicked with quick, easy injections now. We don't need to send operatives undercover, we don't need to ask them to _seek _death. We can provide it here, efficiently, and in between labs Continuals can enjoy a pleasant life of relaxation. We'll obtain the same data as if you had died out there. Doesn't that appeal to you at all?"

He doesn't answer. The sluggish prickling in his bloodstream defies his stubbornness, every nerve slowly lighting on fire as her program urges him to answer. She waits there, patiently. One minute passes. Two.

Three, and she sighs. She reaches over, and taps a few more buttons on her tablet. He tenses. "You don't anticipate a lab life because you have a personal vendetta against us, don't you, Ben? A bias perhaps, that clouds your mind and maybe isn't letting you view things from a factual standpoint?"

They'd killed her, erased her – of course he would have a bias. He had biases all the way up his fucking wazoo. It emanated from every pore and polluted every breath he took.

"Your partner, Jenna. Also one in a million, and one of the dozen Continuals currently operating in the United States. She was caught in a fire just last week, a few days before you were taken in and brought under our care. Immolation, one of the very, very few ways a Continual no longer… continues, basically. That's why you're still so uncooperative, isn't it, Ben? You hate us for killing your partner."

He will not speak. Not about her.

She smiles once again.

"Tell me about her. Tell me about your Jenna."

They'd met when he was thirteen. Trained together, lived together in the various facilities across the US. She'd had her procedure the same day he had; their pulses had started up on the monitors at the exact same time, there to remain beating forever. Or at least, they were supposed to beat together forever. She'd had shimmering brown eyes and a little star tattoo just above her collarbone. Together, immortality had been a little less miserable.

"I understand you miss her. There's been so much research on Continuals who share the same pulse print, on how emotional and mental connections are affected by the physical bond as well." She's pursed her lips in fake sympathy for him and it makes his stomach coil and churn. "I've read your file, cover to cover. When you were first brought in you believed she could still be saved. Brought back _reset_, as you heard in the rumors. Physically repaired but mentally impaired, you'd said, almost everything erased from the mind. I must say, that sounds like a bit of a pointless project. What is the point of saving an operative if they only serve as mindless husks when they're repaired?"

_You people tap into our memories_. The thought is laced with bitterness, anger, and grief. _You'd tested on planting experiences into our heads years ago_.

"So, you think it's not too wild to think maybe we'd just insert different memories in the husks and label them good as new. An interesting concept. I do wish you'd cooperative, an eternal mind that's _also _clever is a treasure to mankind."

Ah, so he's still talking aloud.

"Yes, yes you are. Now, Ben, remember what you'd just told me? About the first time you'd died? It hadn't hurt, Ben. It hadn't hurt like it had in most of your adult operations. It'd been quick, merciful – and if you'd had your procedure done during that time, you would've given the world _so much_ important information about death that cost you nothing but a few lost hours. I'm telling you now, you can do that here. With your cooperation you'll have privacy, luxury, and peace. You will never have to return out into the field."

For a few long moments, there is silence. She stares right at him, pen tapping against the clipboard lazily; but eventually, even her immaculate patience has worn out. She sighs heavily, reaches over, and turns off her tablet. The sluggish electricity in his veins fade away, and he finds his mind reconnecting to his organs, nerves, and tissues. He blinks, clenching his jaw as she stands up and moves over to her desk. She files away her notes, and pulls a handgun out of her desk drawer.

"This would be so much easier with your cooperation, you know."

He knows.

"Your government isn't coming back for you. Our operation is a roach among thousands, you aren't being found."

Yes. Yes, he'd suspected that the moment he'd been restrained and blindfolded. Suspected that the moment he'd even embarked on his last mission with Jenna. Suspected that this might just be the actual end.

"You aren't leaving through death either." Her tone is frustrated now, rigid and unforgiving. "There's no chance of immolation. No dismemberment, and you no longer have a pulse print match to end it for you either." The three known ways to end a Continual's cycle. Yes… of course he knows them. Still, he doesn't speak.

She rolls her eyes now, shaking her head as she snaps the safety of the weapon to On. "You've made this difficult for yourself. Enjoy cycling through lives until you've come to your senses."

He doesn't move. He still doesn't answer. He's also not looking at the gun, or her trigger finger, or even her eyes as she aims the weapon at his chest.

His eyes simply rest on her collarbone, where a little star tattoo used to lay before it was erased with her memories, even as she pulls the trigger.


End file.
